


The Devil Is Not So Black As He Is Painted

by THA_THUMPP



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Conversations, Cannibalism, Complicated Relationships, Confusion, Dark Will Graham, Emotional Manipulation, Hannibal is going to be a father, Hannigram - Freeform, Hate to Love, Hypocrisy, Insecurity, M/M, Mpreg, Murderers, Nightmares, POV First Person, POV Will, Psychoanalysis, Psychological Torture, Regret, Revenge is Sweet, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Will!Mpreg, WillGraham!Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-01-24 04:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1591088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will Graham takes things too far - becomes too <em>involved</em> with Hannibal Lecter, thinking he can find some way to unhinge his habits, force him to show his cards, maybe even <em>persuade</em> the good doctor he's on his side - that he's a man giving into the temptations of his true nature. But there's such a thing as "trying too hard," and something happens to Will that changes his life - changes his list of priorities...</p>
<p>How is Will going to handle dining with the devil while eating for two?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Prelude To A Dream

**Author's Note:**

> It's short but sweet, and there will be more to come! So we hope you enjoy this overture, or at least find it a pleasant read - seeing as it was fun to write. Please comment, subscribe, kudos and/or bookmark... Cheers!
> 
> ***THIS STORY IS TOLD FROM WILL'S POV***

No one said it would be easy to hook a fish that had already been caught. I didn't and neither did Jack Crawford. But that wouldn't stop us from casting a line or devising a plan, for that matter. I knew my enemy's tastes, his… _preferences_ , and saw my immaculate knowledge as a peephole into the ice – a doorway into another world.

The world of Hannibal Lecter.

Though Jack and I weren't expecting results right off the bat. It would be a long haul from here on in, and we had to be _prepared_. Good things took time and even with Jack on my side, landing the right bait would be tricky. But I had an idea of where to start, and if we played our cards right I was sure we'd be able to rock this boat called justice.

Jack wanted to trap a killer. But me? Well, I had other plans. I wanted something with a little more weight, a little more gusto… something I'd feel accomplished about when sinking my teeth into the victory and liberation that would follow.

I wanted payback.

A settlement for all Dr. Lecter had put me through. Though this punishment wouldn't be for something as trivial and derivative as landing me in jail, because I was over that, no longer affected by his ornate procedures. I was looking to make Hannibal Lecter pay for the doubt he let rankle my mind, the uncertainty and self-loathing that followed dished like a side to one of his exotic platters.

All those months of telling me how he wanted to be my _friend_ , that we… had something no one else did – a mutual affection, as he so kindly put. And at first, it was hard to decipher what he meant by this, holding a similar difficulty to that of translating an old tombstone in a new age, and it took some time before I realized it was because of my _empathy_ that Dr. Lecter wanted to be so close.

According to him we… needed each other. We were different from the general population, a group of people who didn't understand us – freaks of nature in a community of decent folk. But it wasn't my nature that required fearing – I could see that now. I wasn't blinded by misrepresentation or misconduct. I could perceive Hannibal Lecter for who he really was, and I intended to use that to my advantage. We both would…

As Jack had said, _You hook him, I'll land him_.

So that's why I agreed to submerge myself back into the feeding ground of the criminally insane, back into the shark tank – back within the cat's claws. All predators alike: Dr. Lecter being the swindler in this game of cat-and-mouse. Though it was hard to wrap my head around the idea of resuming therapy. After all, it had messed with me once before.

But this time I was ready…

Instead of playing the victim, we'd be on equal grounds – psychopath and sociopath under the same roof. I was to make Hannibal Lecter fall for me again, regain his trust, to reestablish a bond that had been put to rest through the indifferences before us, in a time of yore.

After all, beauty was only skin-deep. An appearance I'd no longer have to keep. Who I was then wasn't important, but who I was now? That was everything. And I would make the best of it. My character had been reformed to something greater, my disposition like a piece of clay, sculpted and molded into a masterpiece of vengeance and listlessness.

My appetite and desires had been whipped into a dangerous realm of familiarity, and this ability of awareness made me a bitter monster. I would be playing devil's advocate and was hoping Hannibal Lecter still wanted my friendship… because I still wanted him _dead_.

He wouldn't get my clemency, didn't deserve my mercy, and I was ok with that. These thoughts weren't going away any time soon, and what's more they didn't _scare_ me. Not anymore – not for a long time – not since Baltimore where they were first woven, spun like the tiny spindles of a spider's web. And the more I dwelt and nurtured them, the stronger they got – to the point that nothing could slip through or fly by.

Dr. Lecter would be my insect, a creepy-crawly caught in my web of reprisal. After all, it was only fair. He had disturbed the threading inside my mind, destroyed my freedom with words of malicious intent. So it was about time he got his just desserts. I'd suck him dry, feed off his weakness like a widow – his ruin, my beginning.

Which's why I wanted this plan Jack and I were formulating to work so badly, so badly that it _hurt_. Like the aftermath of an accident, Hannibal Lecter the semi that hit my Ford, sending my wrecked body to the ER without so much as a get-well card. Though even if he did send a gift basket blooming with apologies, it would only be the equivalent of a cheap band-aid, a temporary bliss to my world of ache. But I didn't want that…

I needed his downfall to be _permanent_.

After all, Dr. Lecter took advantage of me, used me like a puppet on strings, only to discard my role once I'd been stained with fault and deception, finding my own voice through trial and error. But he wasn't my master anymore; he couldn't stick his hand inside my head and control me. I was a real boy now, so it was only fair that I'd use him in the same way.

I had my extremities set, my sanity and power back in check, which's why after my chat with Jack – about how to re-lure and possibly capture the Chesapeake Ripper in action – I wasted no time in putting our sketches into play.

Like the villain of a theatrical performance, Hannibal Lecter couldn't hide forever. He was a cold-blooded animal with a spine of poison thorns, nestled among a city of other sick puppies – slayers of refutable tastes and thoughts, but that just added a certain sense of variety to the litter.

I was the director, and determination was my fine point, my trusty fountain pen when everybody else's dried of ink. I was to get close to Dr. Lecter, make him believe we were one in the same, wait for him to slip – to lower his guard and mess up. Then we'd have him; the Chesapeake Ripper finally behind bars. It was a dream both Jack and I were desperately trying to make a reality, whether it be via the obstructive prison or my rod of iron.

It just depended on who got first dibs.

And maybe it was because of this, my new way of thinking, that Jack decided it was in his best interest or perhaps even some friendly advise to tell me to be careful, that he… didn't want to see me crack again. _Go off the deep end_ as he so benevolently paraphrased. But I wasn't worried, and told Jack he shouldn't be either…

In spite of everything I'd been though, Dr. Lecter couldn't break what had already been broken.

I would be treading carefully, walking as if each of my steps were laced with glass, the shards of my wrecked mask – compliments of a good physiatrist. Though contrary aside, righteous guarded he who's ways were blameless, especially when sin overthrew the wicked. And when I wasn't getting any results of a more intimate kinship with Dr. Lecter after the first couple months out of jail, I decided to step-up my game.

Not telling Jack, of course, when I seized an ideal opportunity to validate and solidify the relationship between doctor and patient, convicted and executioner. It seemed like nothing at the time, a commute of associates reverberating the stories of their lives over an affable drink. Alcohol was our second bonding when words fell short, and once again Hannibal Lecter was asking to know the _real me_ , the authentic Will Graham. So how could I pass up such an irresistible invitation to stay late?

However, looking back, it was nothing more than a depraved act on my behalf – a spur-of-the-moment jump – there finding myself willing to do anything to get on Dr. Lecter's good side. To get a reserved seat at his table, a spot in his kitchen among his knives and cutlery, perhaps even a place back in his heart; even if it meant dining with the devil, killing to protect myself or… drinking until our words were spewing like vile.

After all, Jack had asked me to get inside Dr. Lecter's _head…_ but I guess that didn't account for his bed. And the reckoning that followed—

That was nobody's fault but my own.


	2. Dancing With The Devil

If Jack Crawford knew what I had done, what I… _subjected_ myself to for the sake of entrapment, he would have thought me mad. I would have been pulled from the case, accused for falling under the Chesapeake Ripper's charm – accused for becoming _too engrossed_ and fascinated by his ability to survive and hide in plain sight.

Simply put, I would have been impeached for getting in bed with the devil. A man, no, more like cultivator of his own backyard of dumbfounded creatures. Though in a sense, _bed_ was such a figurative term… if I had to be literal, it was a _desk_. Dr. Lecter's center throne and place of work; the very same piece of furniture that sat shadowed by the light of day, but no stranger to the flames of night.

I wasn't proud of my actions that evening. My _empathy_ a curse more so than gift when I presented myself to Hannibal Lecter like an offering, affronting him on the pretense that I had nowhere else to turn… no one else to _mingle_ with.

After being used at work, picked and prodded for my expertise as well as gawked at like the F.B.I.'s personal freak show, I was seeking pleasure, the same sensation I hoped to invoke in Dr. Lecter when he served me a shot of brandy from his oak cabinet.

He sat in the chair across from me, the smell of timber warm, just like the heat of his fireplace as he raised his modern goblet to our good fortunes. Although in truth, it felt more like he was a king granting me the position of knighthood in his imaginary war. His wrists were poised with grace, but his eyes were crowned with hunger, a bodacious hunger for success as he took a deep scent of the mordant liquor before a filling sip, savoring it afterwards with a satisfied hum.

My eyes were on his throat when I followed suit, but not in the same sophistication as a man of such fine upbringing. I downed two gulps, my nose wrinkling at the pungent flavor before I held my glass up to reflect the dull glow of our surroundings. Though it was more like I was showing my hand, revealing to him that I wasn't my normal, guarded-self.

He'd take it as a sign of solace, but this was my bait, my door into the den of Hannibal Lecter. After all, his personality was something I had taken into perspective, something that I had learned from by assuming his way of thinking, his thoughts, views…

We _were_ alike, him and I.

He was unaided – _alone_ – a way of life I was no stranger to, having been alienated and persuaded via his coaching and constant, watchful eye. I used to be a lonely sparrow on the housetop, but after the invariable ridicule and deride during jail, I had become a hawk… and tonight I was hunting. Aside from being isolating, loneliness was also an unconscious liability – a _vulnerability_ , one that I was hoping to exploit.

But like a coin there were two sides, a duality I had to take into account, and I knew I should have been more careful. I knew the _second_ Dr. Lecter and I drank another mouthful in unison, but I was willing to do anything to ascertain my relationship with a man who had given me nothing these past months. Nothing but fluctuation and unpredictability…

He was impulsive, but I wanted _stability_ , something substantial instead of circumstantial, something Jack Crawford could land him for – _catch him_ _for_ , and I lowered my hand between my knees in a lean forward to peer into the amber poison within the hollow pit of my glass. The ice reflected my control, my morality, melting, crackling and striking out against the sides like swords – echoing a match between opponents in battle.

And we _were_ at battle… a battle for my wits.

It was refill, after refill, after refill, and gradually I was drowned in my own theatrics. My tongue numb from the vile alcohol and I couldn't believe my whimsical antics, like my smile when he humored me with nothing in particular. I could feel my Adam's apple bob in my throat when I joined him in his eventual chuckle, my hands trying their best to hide my thrill, my teeth rubbing the backs of my knuckles in an attempt to wipe the bliss from my face. But that only seemed to rile his delight.

Dr. Lecter was sneering, his grin nearly touching his eyes, his rosy lips complementing the tips of his ears as he shifted to the edge of his seat to meet me in a lean, to greet me with his own quirk. He brushed at his hair in a slick as I ran a hand over my face, dragged it over my mouth until it was winding down my neck. It felt hot, probably flushed, and its color only deepened as the night went on… unlike any of our following conversations.

They weren't reliable per say, it was more like conjecture. The _what we could do_ and _what we wanted to do_ , but never the _what we had done_. Hannibal Lecter was well-protected, even in his consumption. He was playing me, just as I was playing him. Answering my subtle questionnaires with the evasiveness of riddles and responding with such ingenious sly that by the time it was near midnight, all I had gone through was one, big circle of zilch.

After all, that's what it sounded like – suggestions and persuasions of a certain seed. There was more absurdity than sown facts and true stories; the coherence and reliability of our words lost with a few slurs, no actual topics just a lot of uncultivated amusement. Though we weren't drunk, not yet, only exceptionally tipsy, drinking in moderation to _take the edge off_. But even after my sixth glass, the Chesapeake Ripper still wasn't ready to reveal himself to me.

I'd have to try again, think of a different plan, an approach that wouldn't end with my fight to stay in control, to stay reserved… something a little less _last minute_. We needed to establish a stronger bond of trust between us. I needed to get Dr. Lecter to depend on me, to open up as an equal companion, not just a contender.

It would be a struggle. But without danger, danger couldn't be surmounted, and if there was no risk, there was no progress – and I _needed_ progress. So I showed my worst side, let the effects of the alcohol intoxicate me into a façade of comfort and friendship – one Hannibal Lecter wanted, the same I detested – and he was allured when I started flirting with him instead of assuming his point of view.

I… _congratulated_ him, flattered his ego and thrive to endure the pests of our society, and the skin around his eyes danced with his lips as he reciprocated my praise. His mouth moved, but all I heard was a low drone, a buzz resembling tiny, angry wings against my drums. The brandy was influencing my bloodstream, just like I was trying to influence Dr. Lecter, and I was beginning to think I should have taken it slower… particularly when I found my head becoming flaccid.

It fell forward to unite my chin and chest and was getting rather hard to raise on command. Even when Hannibal Lecter moved to be by my side, to kneel in front of me with a hand to my cheek that soon dropped to my nape in a gentle caress.

_“Will.”_

He was calling for a response, no doubt testing my awareness with a few shakes and words, except all I caught was my name. It rolled off his tongue and came in a variety of pitches and hymns, each sweet like nectar. But Dr. Lecter wasn't a honeybee.

He was a hornet.

And when I felt him help me up from the chair, my balance lost in waves of euphoria with the worst of my larking, I was almost worried he was going to whisk me away to his hive. Stick me into his catacombs with all the other dead spiders he'd collected over the years, so he could eat me later – _become a piece of him_ _later_ , as a commemoration of commiseration of sorts, an act of kindness and compassion.

But as vivid as the thought was, it tumbled with our balance. We swayed in each other's arms like we were dancing to a slow song, one that was soon overshadowed with our laughter. My chest was pressed against his and I could practically feel his rich chuckle in my own heart. It sounded adoring and I tried my best to swallow my antipathy when I leisurely lifted my gaze to his.

I admired his lust, but that was it. It's what I preyed upon, needed to enhance – his obsession for me, and it looked nothing short of that. He was staring, ever so composed with the smallest tilt of his chin, shielding me with his height, his control; his caramel coating me with a tacky wave of infatuation. And that's when I noticed the twinkle in his eye…

Hannibal Lecter was tantalized.

He was… tormented, _teased_ by my demonstration of submission and easy manipulation. His thirst was promiscuous, overtly hot and bothered, his erection pressing against my thigh as he held me possessively, like I was a mannequin made of porcelain – one that would break if let go.

I had him, but would have to seal the deal – finish what I started – especially when he lowered his head to land a kiss on my lips. It was almost placed cautiously, like he thought I was going to reject him or maybe even bite him then strike him.

The idea was endearing, but I held my tongue, let him have my body – but not my mind. That was something I wasn't prepared to lose again and I fought hard to keep it aware, to keep it awake. I would leave Dr. Lecter thinking himself pious a little longer – let him spice me for his palate, let him _taste_ my tongue and tenderize my flank with his hands.

Against better judgment, I welcomed the devil's seasoning. He had an insatiable appetite, and when I finally bit into his touch, he took me in with zest and flavor. Our chins knocked with our teeth, his cologne uncontrollable and consuming, which broadened my range of sense and I pushed him. But not hard… more like blithe, and shortly walked myself back against the ladder of his library.

It was my support, a prop, but also a place where I could get a better look at what I was enticing… what I was _feeding_. After all, Hannibal Lecter's frame, the way he sat crooked on the edge of his center desk, was but a mere costume… an attire of wickedness, harboring a true demon – dark blue like the river of my mind.

There was calamity in his eyes, the same kind of tragedy and ruthlessness as the records that slipped from the single railing above; all the foreshadowing and lessons of imprudent men and their downfalls crammed into the published pages of literature, biographies and tall tales. If it was some kind of omen, I was oblivious – ignorant as to the consequences when I made to close the gap that had befallen us.

My breath was frayed, my approach sloppy, my hands reaching, the numbness from before washed and no more when I grabbed Dr. Lecter by his vest and pulled him into my mouth again. Despite all circumstances, his touch was addicting, just like his inducement to murder, and I fought to subdue the urge to strangle him.

Jack Crawford wouldn't buy the excuse of _self-defense_ , not this time, but I still found my grip tightening up and under Hannibal Lecter's jaw, to which he grunted and nudged me with his chin as a dare, but I didn't want a scanty surrender. I wanted a _challenge_ , to see how far I could go, how deep I could crawl beneath his skin – to test what could and couldn't be tolerated.

As neat as a man Dr. Lecter was, he couldn't stomach disorder… and that's exactly what I gave him.

I was boisterous in my actions, wiping his counter nearly clear of all piled papers, including the desk lamp to the floor, before leaning against it – showing him what _I_ wanted and not the other way around. I would… _dethrone_ _him_ , destroy his authority like I'd done his petty belongings and strike a chord in his heart lower than the droop of his mouth.

He was dismantled, but not belligerent like I anticipated, and his surprise was soon replaced with a serene smile. His eyes told me he blamed my rude behavior on the brandy and I'd let him believe that as he hoisted me by the legs into a sit atop his desk like I was a platter ready to be served. His hair was disheveled, about as loose and liberated as my own, but not like our clothes.

We were still dressed. Though I planned to change that, and began pulling at the lip of my shirt, knowing all too well what I was initiating… _implying_ as our next step, and Hannibal Lecter slid his nose up the side of my neck, briefly stopping over my life-line to place a succulent kiss.

_“Are you giving me your consent, Will?”_

His inflection was deep and garbled, rumbling like a bottomless pit inside my head, and I felt my blood run cold.

The infamous Chesapeake Ripper wasn't going to get caught for something as demeaning as rape. It would be too simple. My word against his in a courtroom rallied with hypocrites, the same teachers and clerks who reinforced my imprisonment, and I didn't need any more demerits. This time I would be my own judge and jury, representing his trial the best I could under the sham of trickery and deceit.

“Yes.”

I told him what he wanted to hear, my words almost foreign and lost amidst my neurotic nodding, but the results were clear. I had just sold my soul, reached a verdict that had vagaries as to the outcome, but I swore I would live with myself. Reclaim my footing once this was good and done; bury Dr. Lecter's narcissistic and evenly frustrating ideals with his remains… just like he buried Abigail.

_“Then turn around.”_

My eyes fluttered shut, his sardonic whisper was music to my ears, and I obediently slid from the table's top, all the while undoing my own belt – the last exempt of my own dominance crippled with my status quo for guile's sake. I was seeking to feign insobriety a little longer, almost to the point of believing it myself, up until the moment he pushed my head down and bent my body over the desk like it was a knee and I was about to receive the strap.

I felt dirty, stained with sin as I stood there and took it. With my pants pushed around my knees and Hannibal Lecter's unzipped, it wasn't long before things got intimate. He penetrated me with no vacillation, no warm-up or stretch. I was the object of his desire, a mere scapegoat for his inability to socialize and sympathize… and I wouldn't have had it any other way.

I let him mold me like clay, turn me into one of his sculptures of study – not just of mind but of body – and my gasps were cutting, about as sharp and pure as the scalpel he used to file his pencils. And pretty soon I was imagining it was in my grasp, that little instrument taken all the way from his twin desk closest to the fireplace.

I could see it, just as I could see myself stabbing him in the throat, slitting it for good measure – for all he had put me through. His blood would coat my skin, douse my features in velvet as he withered to his knees and embodied defeat. Like Icarus, Dr. Lecter had to fall. He had to lose his wings and drown in an ocean of regret, lament over his naïveté of being manipulated by his mind's eye.

After all, Hannibal Lecter had pushed me in a way Jack Crawford couldn't, so it was only fair that I pushed him back; shoved him over the edge, over the waterfall marking the end of his world – into a realm where water flowed in reverse, rewriting the beginning of our union with inverted roles.

And it was only then that our cup would finally come together…


	3. A Thousand Words

When it came to _being on time_ , attitude was my scry. It's what I used to pinpoint and distinguish between stupor and verve. Stupor was scarce, but verve wasn't permanent, and that's how I found myself today – in a state of lassitude, weak and weary. But that didn't stop Jack Crawford from calling me into work.

Over the phone, he had said _it was urgent_ , and I just naturally let slip _I'd be there_.

But that was this morning, so I wasn't really shocked to find him yelling up a storm when I walked myself into the morgue around noon. I had heard him from the hall, his tongue his weapon, his words his shield, and his fists his chariot – each of them playing their part in making him king.

Jack was loyal in his duties to the bureau, despising murder with great zeal, probably more so than anyone else in the room. Agent Price. Agent Zeller. And like me, Agent Crawford was empathetic. Not to my degree of depth, of course, but more towards the families of the victims instead of the behavior itself.

The mannerisms of madmen were my area of expertise. It's why Jack needed me, to help put him on the right track, to help him read what he couldn't see.

What I could _always_ see – the deepest and darkest secrets of man's worst enemy: human nature.

Except nobody was perfect. I wasn't, but perfection was what Jack wanted. He wanted to feel accomplished. He wanted a _guarantee_ , an embodiment of sophisticated souls to get the job done right, someone to tell him something more than just mere conjecture and speculation…

Plainly put, Jack wanted _me_.

The jester in his court, the odd one out, more so now because I was _late_. My absence probably the most baneful performance yet, so to keep myself from a wrath more demeaning than tomatoes, I let him vent to those who'd listen, all the while hanging back with downcast eyes.

After all, I had to look guilty, but not erroneous, and when it seemed safe enough – Jack's hands by his sides instead of cursing over his head – I casually strolled up behind him, quietly picking up the clipboard on the closest cart to glance over what little details were present.

“It says here that there were ligature marks around the victim's neck.” I didn't look up. “Was asphyxiation the cause of death?”

It was a simple enough question and I was seeking an answer of the same finesse, hoping Jack would penalize my inquiry and not my quality. Though maybe it would have been more in my favor if I didn't make myself out to sounding so rushed. But I had my stomach to thank for that.

It'd been upset since last Monday, and now being _Sunday_ , Jack would have to pardon my haste of wanting to retreat back to my abode in the middle of nowhere. Socializing wasn't on my to-do-list this morning, and I wanted to ferment in a place I knew I had control. A place I could pamper my problems in the comfort of my own company… not vandalize and display for all to see.

But Jack had other plans, and I lifted my gaze from the clipboard just as he was turning around, almost appearing startled – like he didn't know where the voice came from – but I couldn't hold him accountable for insensitivity. His yelling alone was enough to censor any movement even in its slightest, and I was a mouse among men, moving with caution, tiptoeing my way through giants.

Though vigilance wasn't in my nature, not anymore, at least. Not since my reformity in jail. But self-reproach was, remorse still a distasteful and unmovable mountain, and when Jack's eyes finally met my own in a deep slant, mine dropped like a rock, falling back onto the chart in a pretense to relearn my script. “It also says here…”

“Where _were_ you?” Jack's anger was as direct as an accusing finger, his mood obviously enhanced and altered by the vulgarity of homicide, but it was to be expected from this line of duty he called work.

Responsibility made him stressed and being stressed made him less lenient – an ogre of intolerance and jealously, and when Jack Crawford couldn't answer to his superiors, I'd answer to him. That's how it always went. But I was beginning to think that even someone of my standards and wit deserved a sick day, because if Jack was looking for consolation on this newest murder of his, he'd have to understand that I wasn't in the best of mind today either…

“I was… _preoccupied_.” I veiled, my retort being not far from fact, but the last thing I wanted was for Agent Crawford to familiarize himself with my personal agenda, to pry for the elaborate reasoning behind my tardiness.

All he had to know was that I had his back… even when it seemed like I was retaining information, holding onto my findings in some devious ploy of betrayal. But in truth, I just thought some things were better left unsaid.

After all, the prudent kept their knowledge to themselves, but a fool's heart blurted out folly, and in Jack's case, I was simply there to nudge him along, to tell him what he wanted to hear. Not verse him in every little detail of my life – like what happened during last month's session with Dr. Lecter.

It was the beginning and the end of an intimate exploration between doctor and patient. One that traveled well past the stages of a friendly wine and dine, amassing far beyond the disclosure of character, and resulted in… well, plainly put – _sex_.

But that's all it was. I was gullible then, my thirst fervent and intoxication easily roused. It's what I blamed for my giving in to temptation, my feat, and I saw every day after as my eternal punishment – a long-term hangover, the ashtray in my mouth like a reminder of abuse, symptoms that robbed me of my stability of self and control.

I didn't have the resolve to stop Hannibal Lecter from kissing me, his mouth sampling my lips like a rare wine from another handler's cask. His greed was reflected in his touch, the way he traced my body like he was trying to stir something inside me – churn my anger and hatred into pleasure and glee with words of enticement and reassurance.

Unlike Jack.

“When I tell you to be somewhere, Will— _you're supposed to be there!_ ” He was still stuck on the past, hastily pulling me from my own dwelling with his fiery tongue, fueling his irritation with the reminder of his ability to organize my time. But I didn't take it personally. We all had priorities, I just had to bite the bullet and make room for his. Though that didn't mean I had to behave…

“Rules are for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men, Jack, neither of which I am.”

“Then what _are_ you?” Jack pressed, like he had to ask, like the answer was something he wasn't relying on being so obvious. But it was just that.

“A profiler for the shrewd and idiotic.”

I was trying to be funny in my derision, but when Agent Crawford didn't even bat an eye, I left my words to the wind. Though it was more like left to Jimmy Price, who I noticed took quite the liking to my mockery of the F.B.I. with a snicker or two from behind the autopsy table, and I flashed a faint smile in his direction for no reason but the sake of acknowledgement. Although I'm sure it looked more discomfited than conceited, particularly when Jack sighed glumly.

“Then do your job and catch me a killer so I can sleep easier.” He was being careful with his words, an approach I had Alana Bloom to thank. After all, as ruthless as man as Jack was, there was no besting the wrath of a woman. Alana had an influence that could part waters. Her concerns about how Jack was _pushing me too far_ , compensating my usefulness for answers with his constant subjection into the field of slaughter, never going unheard or unnoticed.

But I didn't harbor any ill feelings towards him and would take any praise with versatility. The reality of Jack turning to me for help now only meant one thing – that he needed my eyes, wanted my opinion on his latest case. He was seeking closure, but so was I. Except I didn't need to ask to whom he was referring… I'd read the papers.

“This _Practitioner_ of yours is but a mediocre predator, thinking himself as a god on earth of sorts.” I bounced the clipboard once before lowering it onto the table in an echoing drop. “The Chesapeake Ripper on the other hand, when he's finally caught and behind bars the whole world will sleep soundly. I know I will…”

“Let it go, Will. You were wrong—”

“I was a good many things in jail, Jack. But just remember that a blind man may perchance hit the mark.”

This little bicker was more for show than actual morality. It was something we did in public from time to time, banter and call each other out like old men discussing the scores of a primitive sports tournament. In the end, we had to cast our bait even among friends, keep them in the deep so that we could work our lines more efficiently, which could possibly be seen as an act of misconduct to some, but the last thing Jack and I needed was a slipped tongue…

Though speaking of _tongues_ , there was a funny taste on mine. A rusty and injured flavor I couldn't quite put my finger on and soon found myself sucking at the strength it now carried. It seemed to start every morning, but I blamed it on my brand of toothpaste because if my aftershave was of a poor product, via Dr. Lecter's standards – then who's to say my paste didn't follow suit?

However, against the pungent smell of the morgue and its savory fragrance of bleach and alcohol, it wasn't something I was going to bet my money on, and I adjusted my jacket collar in an attempt to shield my nose from the perfumes of science. But I was hoping it looked more like a wipe than aversion.

“It's Sunday, Jack.” I breathed. Although it's not like the day mattered, I just needed an excuse to leave. “I had plans…”

“Tell that to the victim.” Agent Crawford nodded at the clipboard I'd neglected for a name, but I didn't have to follow his gaze. I already knew the line was blank, void of any and all information about age and background… all except gender and cause of death, that is.

“Who is _she?_ ” I tried not to sound so tired when asking.

“Christine Moorhen. Age twenty-five. A local, born and raised.”

“She's a blonde.” I alleged, more as a statement than question, but had Jack confirming nonetheless with a nod, to which I rolled my head vaguely.

It wasn't hard to deduce the color. I'd identified the Practitioner's type from day one – fair maidens with locks of gold almost fit for the image of angels. It was a hue that he seemed to _feed_ off of, lap at like it was lemonade on a hot summer's day – dropping bodies almost as frequently as the Chesapeake Ripper served wine.

Which was almost every night.

And just the thought of a glass teeming to the rim with swirls of blood had the funny taste from before moving to the back of my throat. But I didn't lose face. Instead, I pit it with a sigh, a very deep and exaggerated sigh, before dragging my eyes over to the empty autopsy table in front of Agent Price.

“ _Where_ is she?” I looked to Jack who had moved to be by the morgue door and after he opened it, motioned for me to follow.

“I'll show you.”

***

_“What do you think, Will?”_

I could hear Jack inviting me to share my perspective, his voice but a mere echo inside my head, except it was too early to know what even _I_ was looking at. In spite of everything, my _gift_ wasn't something I could summon on a whim. It took time, _patience_ – something Agent Crawford was losing, the very same I was finding harder to embrace.

But after a steady breath and the fluttering of my eyes, I managed to let my mind slip elsewhere, where it needed to be – into another dimension where the pendulum of empathy swayed, its silence slicing through the air like a knife to butter.

Once. Twice. Thrice—

When I opened them again I was standing idly as the crime scene rolled in reverse. The officers around disappearing with the stains on the church rug beneath my feet until I was alone in a hover over the body, a piling of beauty among the toil of a beast. Christine Moorhen was distended against the front pews like cloth, stretched and strewn before me like a canvas. But her design wasn't meant to be considered a _painting_ like I'd heard those on site calling it as they packed up.

No. Her corpse wasn't supposed to be viewed as _a work of art_. She was supposed to be seen as an offering – _a_ _tribute_ …

To me.

“… _Will?”_

Her skin was missing. Her body naturally colored with an immodest palette of muscles and organs, which, by itself, made her look minimalistic, muted. But when coupled with the abundance of jewels glued to what was left, she looked like a sparkling spectacle.

The gems made her stand out like a bride among maids. The emerald necklace dulling the strangulation marks on her throat, while the rest of her flesh was left swollen and warped by the same black twine lacing the embroidery of her dress, symbolizing self-possession – what _I_ took as self-possession.

It was in her posture, the way she sat out in the open on the church's front row of benches, red petals adorning her feet. _Rose_ _petals_ , emphasizing strong emotions of desire and passion, and I would have taken the bouquet as a sycophancy of sorts, except her heart was missing, which instantaneously made the whole arrangement feel… _empty_.

And I was frightened to see what she had to say to me – what _Dr. Lecter_ wanted to convey, because this was obviously his handiwork. The symbology and his astuteness to detail already overflowing like water in a tub, a puddle I had been trying to avoid since _that night_ … a puddle I had left to turn into a lake.

Christine Moorhen. This woman was being used as an arbitrator, a mediator between the two of us. A brag that _Hannibal Lecter_ had gotten under my skin, that he had seen _all of me_. To him, this was an engagement. A correlation of our unity, of our fornication, and—

Jack's hand landed my shoulder, and I could feel myself drawn back into the world I ostracized so much, my vision waning in heavy blinks and a grimace.

“Will? I said _—_ ”

“I know what you _said_ , Jack.” I pulled my eyes away from the scene, but only briefly, and when they returned I tried to work around the rest of my thoughts in a hard swallow. “Your killer. He, um… This wasn't…”

I was struggling, though I didn't know why. I'd seen death before, more gruesome than this. Smelled decay without as much as a flinch or cringe. Even decoded filthier messages than the one Dr. Lecter had left for me, the psychology a little more _pretentious_ than I would have liked, but demise was demise…

Yet somehow I still found myself nauseated - by a true illness, not just a feeling - and when the taste of bile burned at my throat again, this time also churning my stomach like it was nothing but lard, I gripped at it tightly just as Jack motioned to the backdrop around.

“What do you think.” He punctuated, voice driven by justice and not observation, and I smiled weakly at the absurdity of my next words before I turned away – knowing it wasn't _exactly_ what Jack wanted to hear, but he'd have to understand…

“What _I think_ , Agent Crawford… is that I'm going to be sick.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you are compulsive to give comments and kudos, we are obsessively grateful.


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